


sick as cancer

by bunnycorcoran



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnycorcoran/pseuds/bunnycorcoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"His father threw out the things that didn’t belong.  And, as it went, so did Harry."</p>
            </blockquote>





	sick as cancer

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST FIC (in forever).
> 
> There's a lot of use of the word "cocaine" but there's no detail or anything, just content warning. And, uhm, Felicia is tagged because there's a fuckton of allusions to her.

“He’s busy.” Harry always heard it, out of the too-young secretaries’ mouths. Some of them were barely six, seven years older than him. It seemed as he got older, they stayed the same. Or even younger.

Fresh out of college. Interns. Girls with business degrees and nice legs. They didn’t mind — the minimal pay or Norman’s sickly lazy eye.

And there were others, of course. Harry didn’t see them as much. He knew the secretaries by looks, and because they were always the ones telling him no. As it went, when they were brainwashed, they all started to look the same: perky blondes (perfectly highlighted) with white smiles (overly bleached) and black skirts (all size 0s). Unlike him, they couldn’t fade into the glass penthouse. So he’d heard, that was why most of them were fired. Let go, they always said, like it was the hardest on him.

“I wasn’t fucking her. Chill.” And he’d leave it at that. Their pretty PR smiles faltered after that, apparently everything they’d heard was true. But they were just glorified receptionists, not allowed anywhere accept where they belonged — nowhere, at least not in Oscorp.

His father threw out the things that didn’t belong. And, as it went, so did Harry.

He threw out some of the girls assigned to him, just like the driver for a black Cadillac. They were model-like, celestial, girls to make sure he didn’t get into trouble. The boy was thrown in with them on vacations from boarding school, instead of being thrown into the glass penthouse. He supposed Norman thought they were “good influences” or girls to keep him off page six, assigning him to them — like a socialites’ rebel child.

With them in Harry’s shadow, he wasn’t supposed to drink, test his extremes. And to make sure they were thrown out, he did. Cocaine one night, practically the way to alcohol poisoning the next.

Sometimes, he’d make sure they’d throw themselves out. He grabbed their wrists with shaking hands, and pleaded with them. 

Harry was never as mysterious as his father, as enticing. His life was spread in magazine articles — the death of his mother, one night stands with models, old arrests dug up when there wasn’t more shit to spread. Norman could keep everything muted where the company was concerned, but he could care less when Harry was. “The boy deserves it. He should know better.” He could practically hear him saying the words. 

Still, his pleads worked. And none of it was his fault, as far as he was concerned. If they got addicted to cocaine, it wasn’t his problem. They’d never find anything like his again, which was even better. 

He wasn’t liable. They shouldn’t trust him, anyway. Hadn’t they heard stories? Shit-wading nannies didn’t last in the Osborn household. Nothing did.

Summers always turned bad, sticky-hot paradise too much for both of the Osborns. IVs in beds, his father’s funeral, a girl with black hair and stoic eyes. They didn’t tell him anything, just mirrored his words back to him. She took orders, not offers.

He hated it.


End file.
